Freak Of Nature
by rukushaka
Summary: Director Coulson and Commander May battle an episode of alien-induced hypergraphia and receive an unexpected visit from an old friend: Natasha Romanov. Nature Series #2.
1. Rain

**I don't own Agents of SHIELD.**

 **This series continues to be written for TYRider. I know I'm in New Zealand and you're in the USA. I also know you're still breaking into my house and feeding the plot bunnies when I'm not home. Don't try to deny it.**

 **Set between 2.06 _A Fractured House_ and 2.07 _The Writing On The Wall_. Second in the _Nature_ series.**

 **Freak of Nature: idiom; a person regarded as strange because of their unusual appearance or behaviour.**

* * *

 _1\. Rain_

* * *

Phil never should have looked at the glass wall on the Bus.

If he hadn't looked, if he'd just strode up the ramp, taken in the devastation at a glance, and gone straight upstairs to the common room, this could have all been avoided.

But the wall had been _right there,_ in front of him, in front of everyone coming onboard _._ He couldn't have avoided looking if his life depended on it.

And now, it seems, his life really might depend on it.

He hadn't noticed anything different in the minutes after seeing the weird symbols that John Garrett had carved into the wall. It looked more like an electronic circuit than anything, all dots and lines, wires and connection points. He'd wondered if the man had been designing some sort of bomb.

He hadn't even noticed anything different in the _hours_ after seeing it. But in the warm dark of early morning he'd woken with an itching in his fingers and the patterns burning a hole in his mind.

They didn't make sense.

They _would_ make sense.

He just had to write them down. Carve them out. Dig them deep.

That was months ago, now. The urge is getting stronger. It was once a month to start with. Then every three weeks. Two weeks. Once a week. May watches and discusses and documents, snapping photo after photo while he works, adding her comments to his written reports of the ongoing… whatever this is… in neat cursive. She doesn't pull her punches, but neither does she hide her concern. Her _worry._

He's Director of SHIELD (thanks, Nick).

And he's slowly being driven insane by an alien compulsion, courtesy of the Kree blood Fury used to resurrect him (really, _thanks_ ).

He's also not stupid. He accedes to May's _two rules, Phil, that's all I'm asking_ without a murmur of protest. No field work, even though he thrives on field work. And open communication, even though secrets are the Director's prerogative.

He's fighting the hypergraphia as much as he can, using every anti-interrogation technique he knows, seizing every opportunity for distraction. It's not enough.

The itching under his skin grows worse with each new mission; he hates being holed up in his office when his team is out there risking their lives, but he knows that it's for the best. May sticks to his side as much as she can. Maybe more than she should. He'd be worried about rumours, Director Coulson and Commander May, if not for the fact that that's not them, that never has been and never will be them while Andrew's in the picture, oh and has he mentioned he just _doesn't care._

The apathy should worry him, he knows. On some level, remote and out-of-focus, it does. But between the patterns gouging lines and holes in his brain, looking after not just _his_ team (Fitz with brain damage, Jemma in danger undercover, Skye increasingly distant and increasingly angry) but _all_ teams (Nathanson wants self-defence training, Harlan is overdue for a routine psych eval, they'll need at least three more competent pilots before next month), and trying to mould a new SHIELD out of the pulverised clay of the old SHIELD… he doesn't have the energy to spare.

Surely apathy is better than the alternative? Nobody wants an emotionally compromised Director. It's better for everyone if he stands back, stands clear, tries to maintain some level of objectivity.

Agent Phil Coulson was never objective. Never pretended to be.

Director Phillip J. Coulson has to be.

He's been busy. Too busy _not busy enough_ too busy. He hasn't talked to Clint or Natasha in ages. They try to touch base with more-or-less regularity: usually once a week but sometimes once a month, sometimes twice in one day; usually a phone call but sometimes face-to-face or, on the most chaotic days, via voicemail tag.

He's the director. They're still agents, albeit freelance and fairly off-grid agents. And with his new team slowly fracturing, he feels the need to hold his old team tight, to remind him that they're still here, to remind _them_ that _he's_ still here _._

But he's been busy _not busy enough_ too busy. Strike Team Delta haven't talked in weeks.

They'll understand.

Won't they?

Yeah. Of course they will.

The gaps between episodes steadily decrease. Six days… five days… four days, by which stage there's an ever-present lump in his gut that feels something between squirming worms and a solidified ball of vomit. He can see where this is going, and he _really_ doesn't like it. Even when he's not thinking about carving, he's thinking about the fact that he's trying _not_ to think about it, which amounts to the same thing. He hides the hand tremors as best he can, knows it's not enough, relies on May to distract and deflect on his behalf.

Three days.

He's long since changed the paperwork to officially name her his successor. Left detailed information about _everything:_ a full list of agents, above-board and otherwise; projects, secret and not secret; plans for the next year, the next five years, the next ten if they can survive that long. Thought long and hard about his decline, about his continued capacity for doing the job, about the final inevitable step if things keep going the way they are.

Two days.

He refuses to go the way of John Garrett: psychotic, slavering, stripped of all reason, that mad light in his eyes. Even the _thought_ of becoming something like that is enough to give him chills. He's lost himself before; he can't do it again.

He'll die first.

And still he doesn't call Delta.

Phil has a room downstairs. It doesn't hold much: clothes, a signed Peggy Carter print, a spartan bunk made to military standard. He hasn't used it in three weeks. May has a room as well, right next to his, but it's too far for her to travel when his compulsion hits — and she _insists_ that he wake her, no matter the hour, no matter how late the team's gone to bed or how hectic the day has been. She needs to evaluate his condition, she says, and he needs to not be alone.

 _I'm the Director,_ Phil thinks idly; _I'm always alone now._ The words don't pass his lips.

So he's set up a couple of couches in his office. May naps while he works at his desk, feverishly trying to get the paperwork finished before the urge becomes too strong. Sometimes he holds out until one in the morning, two, even three, collapsing onto the second couch and falling into an uneasy doze until he's woken by the patterns dancing on the backs of his eyelids. Other times he kicks off his shoes as soon as the lights go out downstairs, drapes his jacket over the back of his chair, loosens his tie and moves to the wall.

He always carves barefoot. He couldn't say why. It just feels _right._ Pure. A grounding of sorts, calloused soles of his feet against grainy hardwood boards. A counterweight for the precarious teetering of his mind.

Today was a good day. Phil made it back from a recruitment mission — an _actual_ recruitment mission, not just a cover trip for Theta Protocol — with another two assets for the books. A bright-eyed Skye burst in to the common room at five o'clock, fresh from a recon mission with her S.O. Under May's training, she's been improving in leaps and bounds. May herself arrived twenty minutes later, shoulders relaxed, carrying a box of donuts from their favourite joint. Fitz…

Fitz doesn't appear to be getting better. But for today, at least, he hasn't gotten worse. It's something. Not much, but _something_. Mack's friendship is a blessing there. He didn't know Fitz _before._ He's got nothing to compare him to.

The rest of the team did know Fitz _before_. Phil would be lying if he said it doesn't hurt. If he said he doesn't struggle to meet Fitz' eyes, doesn't struggle to know how to talk to this new, very much _not_ improved Doctor Leopold Fitz. This Fitz who's only gone downhill since Simmons left.

But they've certainly had worse days. All in all, he'll take it as a win.

Outside his office windows, the simulated sky is black-dark. The stars that gleamed an hour ago have vanished behind a thick curtain of cloud. Phil sits at his desk, working his way through the bi-weekly stack of payslips, while May curls up with a book on the couch. _Her_ couch, really. She tends to take the one directly under the window, tucked into the corner with her feet drawn up under her, body angled toward Phil's desk so she can watch him without really _watching_ him.

He doesn't mind. It's nice, in a way, to have someone who so blatantly worries about him. After thirty years in the spy game, anyone doing _anything_ blatantly is refreshing.

 _His_ couch lies empty, olive green army blanket folded across the back. It's at right angles to May's, back squarely to the video screen so if anyone calls in they won't get a front-row seat to a drooling Director Coulson. The cushions call to him, a siren song promising six hours of blissful rest.

A lie.

The chances of him getting a whole six hours are maybe 50/50. The chances of it being a proper rest are somewhat less than that.

But the thought is tempting.

He signs off on the last of the payslips, shuffles them together, and slaps the pile into his Out tray. Done. What time is it? Ten to eleven. He feels like it's far later. His body is heavy with fatigue, his thoughts edging toward blurred. Truthfully, he's always been an early bird; it was one of many reasons he and May gravitated to each other as recent Academy grads. As a veteran field agent, he's learned to function on any sleep schedule under the sun — which includes a no-sleep schedule in extreme cases — but his natural cycle will always be _early_.

These days, duty makes him not just a dawn lark but a night owl, too. And a noon hummingbird.

But even he can't go 24/7 without sleep.

He blinks and finds himself staring at the blank screen on the wall. Something curdles in his gut. Dread. Horror. Nervous anticipation. He isn't sure. A mixture, perhaps. He lets his eyes defocus as he stares into the middle distance. It's another thirty seconds before he can admit to himself what's going on.

He needs to sleep. Body and mind both ache with exhaustion.

But he doesn't _want_ to sleep, at least not before he's…

No.

He can't let himself think it.

He doesn't need another episode. He carved just last night. _He doesn't need another episode._

But he _wants_ another episode. His fingers itch with it. The blood thrums in his veins. His stomach clenches. It's a problem. It's far beyond a problem, it's a _habit._ Addictive as heroin. Maybe that's what the tremors are. Withdrawal symptoms.

He can beat a drug habit. He's beaten them before; weaned himself off morphine and worse.

This is no drug habit. Or rather, it _is,_ but it's all in his head. It's mind-drugs, hormones, dopamine and seratonin. Neuroplasticity. The more he gives into the compulsion, the more he'll _want_ to give into it. Habit takes the path of least resistance. Every time he carves those lines, he's carving the trench in his brain a little deeper, that downhill slope for the chemical impulses to run along.

And like any habit, there are diminishing returns. He needs the hit more often but the rewards grow ever fewer. It's a vicious cycle.

A cycle he can't stop.

Outside, rain patters on the window.

"Phil."

He hums acknowledgement. His elbows are on the desk, head dropped, hands bracing his temples. Still staring at the far wall. And he's shaking, he realises numbly.

Soft footsteps come closer. May. "What's wrong?"

It takes an effort to speak. "I can't."

"Can't what?"

He swallows. Fights to think through the fatigue, the clawing memory of the compulsion. "I can't," he says slowly, "differentiate. Between needing to carve and wanting to carve and the habit of carving. And the memory of carving. And the memory of needing to carve." He pushes back from the desk. Spins his chair to put his back to the wall. If he can't see the keypad, if he can't see the wall…

Out of sight, not exactly out of mind. But every little bit helps.

"My memory's screwed," he says, and lets his heavy eyelids slip closed. "My impulses are screwed. My judgement's well on its way to being screwed. Basically — "

"Don't."

"I'm screwed."

"You're not screwed," May says. The eye roll is implicit.

"No?" He barks a mirthless laugh. "Have you seen the wall lately? I'm only getting worse."

Hesitation. "I know."

"When it gets too bad — "

" _Don't._ "

He's known for weeks that this is how it will end. "I need you to shoot me in the head, please."

"I'm not shooting you in the head."

"I said please."

"We've talked about this, Phil. I'm not shooting you in the head."

He opens his eyes. Turns his head just enough to meet her gaze. "Heart, then. It won't take much, it's had more than enough damage already."

Her lip quirks. "Was that figurative, or…?"

"No. Entirely literal." But he grins, too, just a little, and finds a gleam of hope in the fact that he still can.

May folds her arms. "How can I help? Without shooting you. Tonight, at least."

It's like trudging through foot-deep snow. Uphill. But he gets there eventually. "I need sleep."

"So?" She looks at him, looks at his couch, looks back at him. "Go sleep."

"Can you lock down the keypad?"

"Of course I can."

"Will you? Just for six hours. So I can't — "

She lifts an eyebrow. "Do you need to?"

"No," he says. "Yes. It's — complicated." Even the mention of carving makes his bones vibrate. He tilts his head. For a moment he swears he catches a whisper on the edge of hearing, a seductive susurration of possibility. "I need sleep," he repeats, more firmly.

The whispering fades away.

May steps past him to the keypad. He resolutely doesn't look while she inputs her Deputy Director's code and locks down the desk. It won't hurt anything. He'll still have access in case of an emergency. It just stops him from moving the screen and gaining access to The Wall.

There are other walls if he's desperate. But they're not the same.

And with May here, he won't get that desperate. He hopes. She won't judge, he knows that. But her presence is a deterrent nonetheless. The lines and dots scraping his neural pathways raw seem to quieten when she's around.

When _anyone's_ around, really.

Distract, deflect, divert. The age-old story of an addict and a habit, a battle and a war.

"Done," she says.

"Thank you." He wants to carve _doesn't want to carve_ wants to carve. The everlasting push-pull is wearing him thin. Taking away that choice is a way of settling the battle, however temporary a stopgap it might be. There's a kind of peace in knowing that, no matter how much he might _want_ to, he _can't_.

Phil shuffles through to the bathroom, where he changes into sweatpants and a grey t-shirt before returning to his couch. Collapses onto the cushions with a groan. Tugs the blanket down to cover him.

Sleeps.

He dreams of carving lines in stone. The lines deepen, become channels and trenches. The trenches fill with blood, thick and dark and wet: first a trickle, then a stream, then a flood. He looks up and sees rock walls towering overhead, covered in never-ending lines and circles. Looks down and sees himself wading through a thigh-deep sea of red. His hands are covered in stone dust.

He wakes with a gasp, heart hammering in his chest.

"Coulson?" May murmurs from the darkness.

"Yeah," he rasps. He doesn't say _I'm fine,_ because he's not.

The itch is back and it's _strong_ , clawing behind his eyes, tingling in his fingertips. He can see the patterns that he needs to draw. They're clear and sharp and vivid — more vivid in some ways than the waking world — and he has to _get them out get them out get them out_ before they're gone.

Something drips into his eye. He's already blinking it away when the familiar tang of iron and salt hits the roof of his mouth.

Blood.

Fresh blood.

Phil goes to lift a hand and finds he doesn't have to. His hands are already raised, nails raking at his temples like he can reach into his brain and scoop out the patterns that way — or, failing any other ( _safer, more sane_ ) method, like he can gouge the burning lines into his own flesh.

Oh. _Help_.

The hiss of indrawn breath is all it takes for May to appear at his side. The lights come up. He doesn't resist as familiar hands wrap around his wrists and ease them to his sides.

Another drip of blood. He blinks and blinks again, trying to stay calm. A stray line from the Tahiti report floats through his head. _…Patients 3 and 4 exhibit self-inflicted scratches to their faces, initially while asleep but more recently while awake…_

May doesn't speak, but her concern is a palpable weight. His hand twitches when she releases it for a second to shift her grip. She folds one hand around his wrists and uses the other to check over his temples.

She's hardly started when his computer chimes an alert.

A visitor.

At the front door.

Weird time to be visiting.

"Go," he tells May.

She steps away to the desk while he shoves his hands under his knees as a precaution, and a second later the screen lights up with a black-and-white view of the front entrance.

What.

The.

Hell.

"Romanov?"


	2. Shine

**I don't own Agents of SHIELD.**

 **Set between 2.06 _A Fractured House_ and 2.07 _The Writing On The Wall_. Second in the _Nature_ series.**

 **Thanks for reviewing!**

 **Next up in the _Nature_ series _: Nature Abhors A Vacuum_ , which takes place in the hours following Rosalind Price's assassination. If you add me to your Author Alerts, you should get an email telling you when that goes up - should be within the next week or so, it's out with my beta reader at the moment.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _2\. Shine_

* * *

May didn't cue the visual from this end, thankfully. Natasha will only have audio to go on for the moment. But that's more than enough for her, Phil knows. Even that one word will be enough for her.

"Hey, Coulson." Natasha faces the camera dead-on, chin lifted. The razor-sharp cheerfulness of her voice is enough to make him wince.

She's on to him. This is _not_ going to be fun.

"Identify yourself," he snaps.

"Agent Natasha Romanov, freelance SHIELD, clearance level 8 — thanks for the promotion, by the way. Designation Tango Juliet Yankee 41 India Uniform 7344, Strike Team Delta codename _Black Widow._ " She finishes with the first line of the Constitution. In reverse. In Russian.

Phil identifies himself in much the same way, adding, "It's good to see you. Surprising, I'll admit, but good."

On the screen, her mouth lifts in a quiet smile. "I was in the neighbourhood. Thought I'd drop by."

"At crazy o'clock in the morning?"

"Time zones are a government conspiracy." The words are dry. "I had a late breakfast not that long ago in another country. Is there a reason you're not letting me see your face?"

She's got him there. "I need a minute to clean up," he admits.

"Blood?"

"Yeah."

"You got in a fight at crazy o'clock in the morning?"

"No. Self-inflicted." And he winces again, because she might not do anything as obvious as tensing, but he can see the coiled steel in her stance clear as daylight. "Not much of it, don't worry. Long story."

"I've got time." It's not a request.

Phil catches May's eye, holds a brief silent conversation — not without a feeling of triumph, because their ability to hold said silent conversations has gone up and down over the years — and nods. "Come on in. May will walk you up."

"You'll be okay?" May asks once she's cut the connection.

"Fine." He tosses her jacket to her as she heads for the door. "If you're quick."

"Two minutes."

The second she vanishes around the corner, the urge comes back with a vengeance. He grits his teeth, turns toward the wall, spins away. _No._ He can't go there. And then he spins away again, this time from the desk. It would be easy to override May's commands on the keypad. He's the Director, he can override anything.

Anything except this stupid, dangerous compulsion.

A glance at the open doorway. Nothing. Or nobody, rather. Ten seconds would be too soon to expect anyone to make it from the front door to his office, even Agents May and Romanov. Even May's _two minutes_ is on the light side. But he can always hope.

He paces a lap around the room, eyes flickering from the screen to the desk to the doorway. The dried blood on his temple pulls uncomfortably when he blinks. He's got time to clean that up before Natasha gets here. If nothing else, it's a distraction.

The bathroom next door is slotted into the tiny space between the emergency exit and a storage locker. He braces himself before meeting his gaze in the mirror. He doesn't want to see a madman looking back.

But it's only Phil Coulson there, shadows under his eyes and a smear of blood on his forehead.

Less blood than he'd expected.

The slimline cabinet behind the mirror holds basic first aid supplies; he cleans himself up in less than a minute, relieved to find the scratches are shallow. Only one of them broke the skin. It doesn't really need a bandaid — the bleeding has all but stopped — but he dabs antiseptic on and sticks one over it anyway. That's better. Soap and hot water takes care of the blood under his fingernails, in the creases of his knuckles, spotted along his wrists. He scrubs both forearms until the skin flushes pink, thorough as any surgeon.

Back in the office, he finds himself standing in front of the wall without conscious thought, one hand lifted to splay against the screen. He grimaces and shakes his head, trying to knock the nagging itch loose. No such luck. He blinks, forces his eyes wide, blinks again. His eyes feel gritty, head clouded, but the buzzing in his head won't _shut up_ , and if this goes on much longer —

He steps back. Forces his hands to his sides, where they flex restlessly.

No wall. No desk. That doesn't leave him many options.

Is anyone else likely to visit apart from the two he's expecting?

No.

Okay then.

He settles on the floor, leaning back against his couch. Legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Arms folded over his chest. His right thumb rubs circles on the calloused pads of his fingers. Eyes fixed on the doorway, he sinks into the old headspace of Spotter to Clint's Sniper.

Deep, slow breaths.

One blink every twenty seconds.

Eyes focused on an area, not on a point.

Nose filtering and cataloguing smells.

Ears alert for the slightest sound.

Ignore the patterns. _Lines and dots and lines and dots and_

Ignore the patterns. _Have to carve have to get them out out out_

Ignore the patterns.

Breathe.

Wait.

After what seems like an age but is probably less than five minutes, he hears footsteps coming up the stairs. In his peripheral vision, a shadow appears on the far side of the misted glass and moves along the corridor outside. Another three seconds and May is in the doorway, Romanov at her heels.

Phil blinks, deliberately narrowing his focus, and rises to his feet. May shuts the door and moves to her couch, picking up her neglected book. Natasha crosses the floor to halt a single pace from Phil.

They examine one another in silence.

"May filled me in," Natasha says after a minute. There's a tiny v of concern between her brows. Her eyes are soft.

Phil nods, momentarily bereft of words. He's struck by the brilliant shine of her red hair, the contrast of her forest green shirt and matching Converse, the faded blue jeans. It occurs to him that he lives underground now, that he and his people mostly wear black or grey, safe colours for operating in the shadows.

How long has it been since he's seen colour this rich?

Too long.

He lifts a hand to brush a loose curl back from her face. She stills, eyes on his face. Delta was always pretty touchy-feely; Clint especially had a tendency to ground himself with half-conscious nudges of the shoulder, an arm around the waist, a hand on the knee. It's been a while for Phil. He'd forgotten how much they depended on it.

How long has it been since he's hugged someone?

Directors don't hug people. The only person of close enough rank is May, and he has too much respect for her personal space to do more than clap a hand to her shoulder in passing occasionally.

Too long.

Not just colour-starved but touch-starved, too. He hadn't realised.

Phil draws a gentle breath and tucks the strand behind Natasha's ear. A single silver ring in each ear. That familiar chain around her neck with its silver arrow.

His hand cups her shoulder, the linen shirt soft and worn under his fingertips. "Thank you."

As ever, she understands the silence between the words. She steps into his embrace, arms wrapping around his back, and he breathes in the smell of citrus shampoo and feels himself relax. Inexplicable tears prickle the backs of his eyes; he forces them back. Clenches his eyes shut. Smooths a hand over Nat's back and concentrates on the feel of her, here and safe, warm and strong and well.

She draws back and sets a slim hand to his temple. "Sit."

It's a gentle order, but an order nonetheless. Phil perches on his couch and lets her check him over. Those piercing green eyes take in every added wrinkle on his forehead, every new scar on his hands, the invisible weight on his shoulders. She explores the red scratches with a ghosting touch, assuring herself that they're not deep, that he's looked after them properly.

"I'm sorry I haven't been in touch," he says when the silence stretches for too long.

"It's okay."

"No, it's not." He shuts his eyes as her fingers probe the edge of the bandaid. Somewhere in the back of his mind he marvels that he can still do this, that after thirty years in the spy business he still has it in him to sit motionless and defenceless, to close his eyes and _relax_ at the touch of someone else's hands. "I should have called you weeks ago."

"Why didn't you?" She's not judging. It's just a question.

"Been busy. There's… a lot going on. But that's no excuse."

"You're too hard on yourself, you know."

He chooses not to reply to that. "Where's Clint?"

"Canberra."

"How long?"

"If it goes smoothly? Ten days."

"He's not injured?"

"Not last I heard."

Phil nods. "Good."

"And you?" Natasha sits beside him, close enough to brush knees.

He keeps his eyes on his lap. "I've been better."

There's a snort from the other couch.

He can feel the weight of Natasha's gaze. After a long moment he gives up and says, "May won't shoot me in the head."

"Damn right I won't," mutters the couch.

"You _want_ her to?" Natasha asks.

"You know what's going on in here, right?" He taps his head. "Neurological breakdown, essentially. I have these patterns burning holes in my head, they want to get out, and if they _can't —_ it's not good. So I find myself bending paperclips into weird shapes or scratching lines and circles on my desk or carving them into walls for metres on end. Initial episodes were once a month; they've progressed to once every two days now. Except…" He stops.

"Except?"

"I wanted to carve last night. But I'd carved the night before."

"The episodes have progressed to happening every night."

"Almost. Yeah."

A slim hand covers his, halting the fingers plucking at a loose thread on his trousers. "I know you're fighting it."

"You've been here ten minutes."

"I know you," comes the calm reply. "You're fighting it. Hence the shadows under your eyes, the presence of May in your office at crazy o'clock in the morning, and the frankly huge pile of paperwork in your Out tray."

Phil looks up then. Meets Natasha's gaze, which is equal parts amused and worried. They're both thinking about the Out tray and Clint's utter loathing of paperwork. "Hypergraphia is the first stage," he blurts. "Cranial excoriation usually develops from there. Then aphasia. If I haven't resigned by then, emergency protocols kick in and, _in_ _absentia compos mentis,_ I'm removed from office and May becomes Director. Next, secondary insomnia related to the hypergraphia. Obvious side-effects there; humans can only go so long without sleep. Final stages, catatonia and/or complete psychosis."

"Sounds unpleasant."

"You think?" He laughs; it emerges only slightly hysterical. "There's no fix, Nat. There's nothing we can do. I'm trying to fight it, but pushing back only seems to make it stronger. Whatever I do, it's a lose-lose scenario. If I hold out, it gouges patterns on the insides of my eyelids until I can't sleep, can't eat, can hardly hold it together to command an op; if I give in, I still can't sleep because I'm too busy carving, and I get the back spasms and muscle cramps that go with it. And all the time —"

He gulps air. Rubs a shaking hand over his stubbled jaw. "All the time it's getting stronger. It never makes sense in my head. Every time I think — if I can just write it down, carve it out, dig it deep, it'll make sense. It'll make sense, it'll stop trying to tell me its secrets, if I can just _understand what it means_ — but I can't. I can't. I've got no idea what it means."

Natasha takes a breath. Puts a hand on his arm. Lets her breath out without —

"Say it," Phil says.

"Sleeping pills?"

"I've tried them." That alone will be enough to tell her how serious this is. "I get a sort of terrifying half-sleep where I'm not far enough down to actually rest but I'm too far down to wake up. Good nights I get four hours, bad nights I get eight. And I dream about carving. _The whole time_."

"Even with the special ones?"

"Even with the special ones." The ones she'd concocted just for him, knowing his abhorrence of them, the way they stripped him of any semblance of control. The special ones that actually _worked_ ; not for long, but for long enough. Three hours. Sometimes four. More than long enough to give him the edge he needed.

Nat frowns. "Damn."

"Yeah."

"I'll need a list of — "

"Symptoms, side-effects, date and time ingested, how long it takes them to kick in, how long it takes them to wear off, all of that, I know." Phil waves a hand toward his desk. "All there. Hard copy. Bottom drawer."

She looks sideways at him. "Hard copy, really?"

"Internet's great for communication. Not so great for privacy." He's always been a private person. Even moreso since becoming Director. Conversely, he's only realised this last six months how much he really, _really_ needs people around him. He's no lone wolf like Fury. Too much isolation makes him go stir-crazy.

If he's honest with himself (and he's always honest with himself), so does being stuck in this office with the weight of SHIELD on his shoulders.

Phil drops his head back against the couch and stares at the ceiling tiles. Sixty four wholes, twelve halves, and seven bits. He's counted them more than once. A warm head lolls against his shoulder, red hair tickling his nose.

Yeah, he's missed this a lot.

"What do you need?" Natasha asks quietly. "Sleep or carve?"

His mind skitters for a moment, a one-track record skipping a beat before finding its place again. "Both."

She frowns. "Overwatch."

"I need both," he says. He's let it go for too long, he can see that now. Should've carved last night when he could still summon the energy. Now he's got exhaustion tugging him backward while compulsion drives him onward. He's losing fights on both fronts. "I need to sleep, but my mind won't let me do that until I've carved. I need to carve, but I'm so tired I'll probably fall asleep before I can finish the first section. And so on. It's a cycle. Symbiosis. I need both."

"Which do you need _more?_ "

He mulls that over for a minute, fighting the sluggishness of his mind. Right now his eyes want to slip closed and stay closed, but he's already slept tonight — for a given value of _sleep —_ and not for long. He hasn't carved yet. And once he's started…

A tingle of warmth spreads through his veins, a fizzing spark, the fuse of a firework both exciting and dangerous.

Once he's started he can never stop until it's done. The urge to carve overrides all other urges; sleep, food, bathroom, nothing else matters but the carving, the driving need to _get it out, make it known, have to understand._

When he thinks about it like that, the answer is obvious.

"Carve," he says. With the admission, the _confession_ , comes a feeling not unlike breaking the surface after being underwater for a long time. Whatever it is, it's clean and sharp and fresh and even as his stomach sinks, the blood sings in his veins.

Not half as much as it will sing once he's actually carving.

Working together, the three of them set up the camera and the drop-cloth and the tools. May overrides her previous command. The screen rolls up to reveal the glorious blank space of the wall. It's waiting for him. His heart is both heavy and light when he steps onto the sheet, scrunches his toes into the cool cotton, and turns to face Nat and May.

"Tell me I'm doing the right thing." It's a request, not an order. A plea. He's desperately unsure, himself. If anyone in the world will give him a straight answer, an honest answer, it's these two.

And Clint, of course.

But Clint's not here.

"You're doing the right thing," May says. "Better to let it out now. It might not be so convenient later."

Natasha just steps forward and wraps her arms around him. Bless her. It's answer enough. He holds her tight and basks in the embrace, inhaling citrus and sweat, exhaling all the stress and indecision that dogs his heels these days.

"Don't make me wait this long again," she murmurs in his ear.

Phil lets a rusted laugh slip free. "I won't. I missed you, Nat."

"Good."

Body safe, mind set on his course, he drops his arms.

Turns to the wall.

Picks up the knife.

And begins to carve.


End file.
